


Full of Love

by Gobetti, Khemi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Egbertcest, Food Kink, Frotting, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:42:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gobetti/pseuds/Gobetti, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khemi/pseuds/Khemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The comfort you gain from your cakes, your sweet, delicious cakes - both baking and consuming them with no qualms afterwards- are your only weapons against the sudden void your son left in your home, and, most recently, a tool against his now too constant presence.</p>
<p>You find that you mind neither of these things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kelaruj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelaruj/gifts).



> So I was looking at some WIP fics I had stored in my fanfics folder and found four pages of a gain weight/food kink fic I started writing for Kela last year.  
> My moirail liked what I had so far and helped me finish it, like the lovely sweetie she is. Thank you, darling. 
> 
> PLEASE mind the tags, and if all of those things are your sort of things, then by all means, my dear readers, enjoy~~
> 
> \--
> 
> (Khemi: I'd never touched food kinks before but okay, Gobetti has won me over. She has a way with these things - go enjoy it.)
> 
> \--

Your boy is all grown up now, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t hurt.

He hugs you tightly, laughter in his voice and tears prickling his eyes, and you hug him back with all the strength you can muster, careful not to cry as well. You’re his father, so you must be strong, if only for his sake.

If only in front of him.

He waves enthusiastically as he makes his way to the rented limo where his friends wait for him, and soon enough they’re driving away. Just as the car reaches the end of the street, one of the tinted windows rolls down and John shoves his head and half his torso out precariously, and you almost drop your pipe from your lips with worry. He, in retort, simply laughs at the expression on your face and waves again.

“I’ll call you when we get there, Dad!” He shouts just as the car makes a turn to the right, and you lose sight of them.

Your heart is heavy.

Back at home, your empty house feels... different. You know John will only be away for a month, but you also know that he’ll be gone just as quickly once his classes start.

The cake you baked this morning, the one that he promptly ignored much like all the other cakes you’ve baked him in the past few years, rests on the kitchen table, untouched, knife at the ready beside the plate.

You drag your feet to the kitchen, pull the wooden chair back and sit down with a heavy sigh. Your pipe is placed on the table’s surface, and you stare at the perfectly glazed sponge before you.

You eat with your hands, too distressed to bother with getting up to fetch dishes and silverware, absolutely indifferent about the mess you’re making. Within thirty minutes half of the cake is gone.

The tears, though, manage to persist.

\--

The day when John comes back is the day you realize how much older you’re getting.

He’s visibly taller, chest broader, with sun kissed skin and shiny black hair, much like yours used to be.

You open the door to him and almost get knocked down by the way he tackles you into a hug. Your knees beg to buckle, but you stay on your feet, no matter how hard it has become to hold John’s weight in your arms.

After the initial laughter and screaming, he sets both feet on the floor, loosens up his death grip on your ribs and hides his face on the crook of your neck. You feel him smiling softly and sighing.

“I really missed you, Dad.” He whispers against your skin, and your heart flutters in your chest.

Perhaps in the wrong way.

“I’ve missed you too, son.” You whisper back, tangling your hand in his hair. He smells like berries and sunscreen, and that familiarity you craved so, so much.

You wish you could never let him go.

Later on a cake is baked, as usual, to celebrate John’s safe return, but when you bring it upstairs to his bedroom, you don’t even get to knock on the door.

You hear him moaning inside, not as softly as you wished, and suddenly moans become begs and quiet little shouts of pleasure. You know you should walk away, you know you must give him privacy, not to intrude in his affair – especially _this_ kind of affair – but your feet seem to be glued in place, legs wobbly and unsteady. You can barely breathe.

And suddenly, out of nowhere, you hear him cry out, voice strained and breathy,

" _D-Dad...!_ "

It’s like an out of body experience. You see yourself, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, mouth slightly agape as you try to process what just happened, what you just heard.

First you believe you must’ve been mistaken, you heard it wrong, this is all a terrible misunderstanding.

Then John moans again, louder, and the same word gets slightly elongated by the throes of his orgasm.

“Aaaah, f- _fuck_ , _Daaaaad...!_ ”

You think of knocking.

You also think that interrupting him would be awfully rude of you.

Instead you return downstairs as quietly as possible, trying to pretend you were never upstairs in the first place, your slack pants impossibly tight.

You eat three fat slices of cake with your hands (you've become quite fond of the sensation, if you may say so) and pump yourself to full erection with your glazed hand afterwards, imagining John there with you, licking you clean, chin and nose and cheek covered in the white sugary cream.

You also imagine his glasses and forehead and hair dripping with a different kind of white cream.

You come harder than you ever have before, wondering what on earth you just did.

You eat more cake to get your mind away from things.

You end up downing the last crumb, licking the remains off the tray, your mind still fogged up with guilt and confusion.

You don't sleep well.

\--

You give John a car.

He widens his eyes and chokes on whatever he was going to say before throwing himself at your arms again, kissing your cheek and chin and nose over and over again.

“I figured you’d prefer this to some lonely apartment.” You tell him, almost giggling, and he laughs happily, smile certainly making his cheeks ache by now.

“Oh my gosh, Dad, this is perfect!” He exclaims, and when you jingle the keys suggestively at him, he snatches them out of your hand and sprints to the shiny blue car.

In the end, John doesn’t move out; he drives to and from his college, and gloats to all his friends about how his Dad is ‘super awesome’. He tells you one night during dinner that whenever someone makes fun of the fact that he’s still living with his father, he asks them how eating ramen every night for dinner is doing for them.

He shoves a mouthful of mashed potatoes and roasted pork in his mouth, still smiling.

“This is delicious, Dad!” He says, and you chuckle softly.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, son, and save some space. I made us a chocolate cake.”

John frowns a little, and as expected, sprints to his bedroom right after the two of you finish eating, mentioning homework as he dumps the dishes into the sink. You shake your head, this outcome just what you had predicted, and cut a slice of the dark brown cake for yourself.

You eat four more slices just because you deserve it.

\--

The day you realize you’re changing is when you try to put on your best suit.

There’s a meeting at work today – the kind of meeting that requires something a little more fancy – and you pull the black suit from its hanger and out of the plastic bag with the utmost care.

All that carefulness doesn’t matter much after you put the jacket on, though.

The suit is visibly tighter around your frame, and you examine the tailored sleeve that once fit perfectly around your arm; now it looks impossibly tight and uncomfortable, the thin line of the seams getting pulled and stretched whenever you try bending your elbow or move your shoulders. It makes you nervous, worried about ruining your favorite article of clothing, so you remove the jacket, hanging it back up.

You leave earlier, making a stop at a rental shop to acquire a suit that fits.

It doesn’t surprise you, but it’s still a hard blow to your pride when you find out you’re four sizes bigger. You try not to dwell on it too much, and make your way to work.

When you get home, though, you throw the rental carelessly to the couch, and practically ignore John when he greets you. Instead you make a beeline to your bedroom, and you hastily remove your outfit, opening your closet door to face the tall mirror inside and stare at yourself.

You don’t have a prominent beer belly like your fellow co-workers, but you’re definitely bigger all around. The soft and pouchy belly you once had now looks as though it has widened, and your arms have lost all signs of the muscles you once had, now nothing but a memory from your younger days. Your thighs and neck are visibly thicker, and the elastic of your briefs cling to your hips, forming a little dip. You fear your chest is starting to swell.

You frown.

“Dad...?” John asks, peeking inside your room, and you instinctively turn around, still feeling a little terrible. “What are you doing?”

The sigh that leaves your lips is completely unintentional, and you look back at the mirror, unsure of what to say. John takes that as his cue, as an unspoken invitation into your room, and you don’t want him here, you don’t want him near you, but at the same time you wish equally that you could simply hold him, smile down at him like before. Instead, he stands behind you, a little to your left, and you frown when you realize he’s taller than you now, the broad shoulders inside his shirt showing no signs of the fat and softness that surrounds your frame.

“Is something wrong?” He asks, placing a hand on your bare shoulder. You look to the side, into his worried blue eyes, then shake your head, running your fingers through your thinning hair.

“It’s... nothing, son. Nothing to worry about.”

By the way John’s brows furrow you know he’s having none of that.

“Dad.” he says, almost as a warning, practically a request, and you sigh again, shoulders slumping.

“I’m getting older, son. Fatter.” You whisper, the words bitter and feeling wrong in your mouth. John widens his eyes and looks at the mirror, analyses you like you were analyzing yourself, and god you’ve never felt so self-conscious of yourself before, clad naked except for your briefs before your son, feeling almost trapped beneath his scrutinous gaze.

“No, Dad, what? What are you talking about? You look fine! Great, even!”

“Son, don’t--”

“But I’m serious!” He walks behind you, places both hands on your shoulders, forces you to straighten your back and puff your chest out. “You look great, Dad. Really, _really_ great. I’m serious! Don’t think I’m just saying this so you can feel better, ‘cause I’m not, okay?”

You think of his words, weigh their meaning.

A few weeks ago, they would have been just fine, normal, acceptable. You would have appreciated the thought, the fact that your son worries about your well being, and perhaps even felt a little proud of him. A few weeks ago, those words would have been harmless, caring even, and you would have maybe hugged him, thanked him for his kind words.

Now, though.

Now you remember the hushed names and the muffled moans hidden behind closed doors, and you can’t help but note the undertone to his voice, wonder if you are imagining it or if maybe, just _maybe,_ his reassurance really does have a hidden meaning behind it. Something darker, something _else_.

John’s hand slides down, rubs at your arms, sending shivers down your spine. It makes you tremble, and you just know - you’re absolutely certain that he felt it as well. He quietly whispers, “Dad...?”

The word finally makes you snap out of your thoughts.

“Yes, ah. No matter. Nothing that can be done.” You say, hastily moving forward to close the closet door and hide the mirror, a sort of unspoken excuse to step away from John’s warm palms on your skin. “Thank you, John. Now if you’ll excuse me I am going to freshen up before dinner.”

“Ah... okay.” John says, nodding. He steps away as you shuffle through the room, gathering clean clothes and avoiding eye contact at all costs, only slumping down onto your mattress when you hear the familiar click of the lock.

You hug yourself, still feeling the warmth and the slight tingle that John’s hand left on your skin. Your heart beats faster and your breathing becomes rapid, making you slight dizzy.

You wonder if maybe you’ve enjoyed John’s closeness far too much, far more than you ever should, and you bite your lip until your teeth almost break the skin, scratch your biceps until they’re red and sore and don’t hold that pleasant buzz John left behind with his too soft, too tender touches.

You make a meager dinner for yourselves. John either doesn’t mind or decides not to say anything of it, eating in relative silence but still randomly bringing up various happenings from his day at college. It does nothing to relieve the tension, still practically palpable in the air, and the reason for the oppressive stress is clearly known by both of you, but so wrong and so taboo neither one is brave enough to bring it up.

John merely watches as you clean the table, refusing to move from his spot in his chair, merely an observer as you put away the leftovers and take your most recent confectionary creation, a large strawberry and cream cake, out of the fridge. You sit down across from him and help yourself to a big, fat slice, not even bothering to offer some to him, since you know he’ll just refuse it like he usually does.

You choose to use cutlery this time, only because John is watching you with so much intent that you can’t bring yourself to let go and enjoy the sweet like you normally would have, despite still not saying a single word. You must remember your manners in front of your son, you think as the fork slices through the moist dessert like a hot knife carving butter, and bring it up to your lips with slow, deliberate motions, eyes decidedly focused on your plate.

The cake isn’t as delicious when you don’t feel the coldness or the smoothness of the cream on the pad of your fingers, or when you can’t wrap your lips around the crumbling sponge, you note. You eat in silence, watching John’s oddly tense form out of your peripheral vision, the only sounds in the kitchen the tinkling of the silverware against your plate and John’s breaths across from you. They are far too loud in your ears to sound entirely natural.

He retires to his bedroom while you’re washing the dishes, back facing him. You pretend to think nothing of it, the same way you pretend to not hear him moaning your name when you walk past his door on your way to your own bed.

You briefly wonder if he’s doing it on purpose.

Sleep doesn’t come easy.

\--

The weeks that follow are hell on earth.

The memories of that night in front of the mirror haunt you, and you avoid your reflection at all costs, shop for bigger shirts and wider slacks without trying them on in changing rooms to avoid the sight of a tired man far past his prime. The smaller sized ones that once fit you so well are placed neatly away in a back drawer, and you tell yourself that you’ll probably be able to wear them again someday to offset how awful the action makes you feel. You know even as you do that it is a blatant lie.

You take your yearly one month vacation from the office, convincing your employer - after a fairly lengthy discussion - to allow you to work from home for a couple of months afterwards. But being home is not the relief you had hoped it to be. Suddenly you notice how frighteningly empty the house is now that John is in college, how cold it feels when he comes back and sits in silence on his computer instead of bringing home his friends. You note how much you miss his shrilly, boyish voice and his high pitched laughter, but also how you adore his deep voice, how much older he looks and sounds, how everyone thinks that he’s you when he’s the one to answer the phone.

You spend the time when he’s not home in the kitchen, cooking for the both of you, but mostly baking. The cakes have been running out fast, and you notice at last with a feeling of inevitability that it is simply because you’ve been eating them a lot faster than you can possibly make them. Your vacations comes in handy, as you now elaborate your designs, make intricate swirls, delicate frostings, smooth, glazed, opaque and shiny, of all colors and kinds and shapes and sizes.

If cooking helps take your mind off things, eating your creations has double the effect on you, and you bask in the weirdly comforting afterglow whenever you enjoy yet another generous slice of one of your ever so marvelous cakes.

But lately, ignoring the ‘John situation’ has been getting harder and harder.

You doubt you will be able to avoid running out of cake so quickly any time in the near future.

Starting from your fifth day of vacation, he comes home earlier from college, helps you finish cooking the beans and roast the meat. Your hands bump and your fingers brush when you reach for the cabinets or the cutlery, or even when you need to open the tap and he rushes to do it for you. His shoulder almost caresses your back when he walks around you, almost as if walking too close for comfort only so he can touch you.

Almost.

During dinner the awkward exchange continues, and you note, with a nervous beat of your heart, that less and less words are being exchanged between the two of you, and instead more and more awkward glances and longing looks are thrown this way or that. More often than not you avoid his direct gaze, even if you can still feel it on you, watching you, _wanting_ you, even while you do your best to ignore it and make nothing of it.

John doesn’t like your cakes. You fail to know if it’s because he simply doesn’t like cakes in general or if he doesn’t like your baked sweets in particular, if it’s the texture, perhaps, or the amount of sugar you add to the confections, or some other small detail you fail to comprehend. You don’t know and you’re ashamed of that because as his father you feel as if you _should_ know, as if you should ask him, but you don’t. It’s just something that you’ve long accepted, the smell of freshly baked cake something you figure he must be used to by now. You slice the gorgeously warm cake on top of the kitchen counter and wonder, for a second, if he remembers you whenever he is greeted by the familiar smell.

Once again you bring out the plate and fork, and once again John observes you. You wonder if he’d like a piece, if that is why he insists on staying.

You really cannot fool yourself.

He says goodnight, runs up to his room, and once again he touches himself, though he’s not as enthusiastic as the first or second time you heard him.

This becomes a routine over the next few weeks that pass, and slowly, slowly, you begin to realize John is almost always home now, spending so little time at college compared to his near constant absence when you first found yourself left alone in the house. You inquire politely about it one dinner, and he merely shrugs.

“Decided to take most of my classes online. Only need to show up for tests and stuff. It’s easier.”

“Is it just for the sake of convenience that you decided to take these classes at home, John?” You ask before you can stop yourself, and you see as much as you _sense_ John’s shoulders tensing, the effort he puts into keeping his face impassive, into stopping himself grinning mischievously and humming a, “Maybe,” giggling under his breath and not speaking of it again. Instead, he shoves another fork-full into his mouth, chews, and mumbles,

“Yes.”

Egberts are terrible liars by nature, it seems.

You eat two slices of cake that evening, and John is oddly silent inside his bedroom for a change, which for some reason bothers you terribly. Almost as if you’ve grown used to falling asleep to the memory of the sweet song he makes every night on his bed.

Your clothes keep getting smaller, your body keeps getting bigger, and when you finally look at yourself in the mirror again you can barely recognize your own reflection. You almost crumble, filled with shame and rage at yourself.

You pull your too small clothes out of the drawer and make a box to a goodwill. You briefly consider stopping eating, but you know you can’t. You can’t bear the idea of not baking, of not savoring the sugary goodness that results from it, and it’s so conflicting, so _terrible_.

John’s cries of pleasure across the hall only serve to make you feel worse about everything.

You fetch another slice of cake from the kitchen, take it to your bedroom, and revel in the sensation of having it in between your fingers again after so long.

You close your eyes as you suck on your digits, imagining your son in front of you, licking them clean for you instead. Imagine him smiling like he used to, instead of the strained little grins he gives you nowadays, wonder how his tongue would feel running across your fingers, wiping the frosting from your lips, your chest, your cock--

The fantasy becomes too much, and you swallow down the sweet maybe a little too fast, almost choking on it, killing off any sort of arousal you might’ve gained from your twisted, disgusting thoughts. You wonder if you’re a terrible person for doing this. It’s hard to tell wrong from right, at this point, when all you can think about is John’s whimpers, the same ones you’ve unconsciously become used to hearing every night.

You bury yourself beneath your covers, waking up to a cold sweat, the result of twisted, tormented dreams that you can’t, for the life of you, recall.

\--

This whole scenario is much like a fragile house of cards, ready to fall at the slightest touch.

You don’t know for how much longer this little act will hold up. You, accepting John’s help; John, ‘accidentally’ bumping into you whenever possible; you, avoiding talking to focus intently on dessert; John, stroking himself to completion at the top of his lungs.

The two of you, as always, pretending nothing is wrong.

But you know everything’s wrong. _Everything._ From the way John avoids direct eye contact, to how he doesn’t invite his friends over, to how he doesn’t laugh or smile sincerely anymore.

It pains you. It pains you much more than the chubby belly you’re now sporting. Pains you more than the pangs of guilt that tug at your heartstrings on those long nights when you can’t help but go with the flow of John’s sighs and moans, holding yourself in your hand, fist clenched and breathing rapid and short.

You’re both sitting after dinner, cake on the table, fork in your hand, the usual tense performance of normality well underway. You note John is far more fidgety than he typically is, but you make nothing of it, serving yourself your usual slice. You look over the confectionary fondly, and wish now more than ever that you could use your hands. Lately you’ve been a lot more shaky, a lot more tense, a lot more unsure of everything.

The frosting hasn’t even melted in your mouth when you hear John clear his throat, and he shuffles awkwardly in his chair before you, both acts catching your attention. When you look up fully, you note his head is down and staring at the table instead of you, which is a relief but quite unlike him. His cheeks seem to have gained a richer flush than their usual, pleasant shade.

“You know,” John whispers, voice barely audible, and you thank heavens for the quietness of the suburb, your ears straining to hear him. “You’ve been acting different around me lately, Dad.”

Your throat closes up. You can’t even swallow the miniscule piece of cake in your mouth, the color draining from your face.

“But I get it, I get that- um.” He continues, and you force yourself to push it down, the sweet descending like coal in your throat. John coughs again. “I think... I think that we, uh, we should maybe talk. About this.”

The hand holding the fork is shaking; if the silver touched the porcelain it would rattle, the sound impossibly loud for the heavy quietness of the kitchen even in your thoughts. John is still talking, and your heart thumps faster, your hand frozen in place but for that impossible to control tremor as the words reach you.

“For a while now, I’ve felt... different. About you, Dad.”

You can’t do it. You drop the fork to the tablecloth, the sound dulled by the fabric and the wood, and rest your hand next to it. Will it to stop shaking, already knowing it’s a futile request.

“How do you mean, ‘different’?” You inquire, voice shaky, and John bites his bottom lip.

“I’m pretty sure you know, Dad.” He replies, and you feel so foolish, so terribly naive. When you look up, John is looking back at you, almost as though expecting an answer, a reaction of some sort. Nothing comes to you. Nothing.

Instead you look down at your plate, at the fat, gorgeous slice of cake on your plate, and run a finger through it, immediately sucking on it to clean the frosting from of it, leaving a huge gouge on top of the formerly impeccably smooth decoration.

The cool on your flesh and the taste on your tongue are soothing, and without a second thought you reach for the cake, putting all dignity aside, feeling comfort in the feel of smooth sugary goodness on your skin.

“I was, um...” John mumbles, now looking a bit to the side as you take a respectable bite from the cake in your hands, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “I was starting to think that, maybe...”

“Maybe what?” You ask, trying not to sound pushy, only trying to will John to keep talking, for even now some deeply ingrained parental instinct tells you that sons should be able to talk to their parents, they should, and that John should, therefore, tell you what is bothering him so much.

The instinct mixes with a less respectable, nagging curiosity banging at your subconscious, dying to know what John is thinking, unable to go without hearing the end of that sentence, because you do not know what to expect in the very least, even while you feel like you _should_ do.

You take yet another bite of the cake, this time making sure to have more frosting than sponge.

“...maybe you felt the same?” Comes the hushed reply, so quiet, so timid and afraid, and you can’t help yourself, the nerves in your body taking over.

You shove the rest of the cake slice into your mouth, effectively smearing your palm with frosting and crumbles, and automatically reach for the cake, scooping globs of the smooth frosting off of it with three fingers and immediately shoving them in your mouth. It’s not as soothing as before, it’s not, it just doesn’t feel the same, and your heart keeps beating in your chest, your stomach oddly empty, even as you swallow down your mouthful, even as you salivate through another scoop of frosting, your eyes slightly unfocused as you try to grasp the comfort the sponge usually gives you, try to grab it, hold it, retrieve it--

“Dad?”

Immediately you stop, pupils focusing again, your hand half buried into the mass of the cake. It’s now almost completely ruined, you note distantly, your once clean hand now completely smeared in vanilla and chocolate cream.

You can’t answer, can’t, don’t want to, what would you say, where would you begin?

You finish the scoop, eat the cake off your fingers. You briefly, vaguely, think that you should control yourself, apologize for your behavior, put the cake away - or maybe just take the tray with you to your bedroom, eat it all in one go, god knows how much you need it right now.

Your hand still shaking, collar hot, head dizzy, your grip on reality shaky at best.

You don’t know what to do.

You feel lost.

A warm hand pulls you back to the world outside you struggling mind. John is looking rather worriedly at you, and you freeze, pulling sticky fingers still half coated in chocolate frosting from your lips, swallowing the last mouthful of cake with some difficulty.

You must look like quite a mess, you think. How badly John must think of you right now, after watching you come so completely, disgracefully undone.

You’ve not felt so ashamed, so angry, so furious with yourself, not since you failed to fit into your favorite suit. The burn in your throat and the sting in your eyes gradually grows more and more difficult to ignore, and the feeling of being out of your depth, of feeling simply horrid and _filthy_ , spreads over you, consumes you, leaving you nearly incapacitated.

John’s grip slowly, ever so slowly, slides down to your wrist, his soft palm brushing over the hairs on your arm.

You’re too numb to act, to think straight, to make anything of it.

It’s like the first time you heard John moaning your name; you feel like you’re watching the whole scene as a third party, observing calmly from afar as your eyes widen and your cheeks and nose flush with tears unshed. Observing how John looks at you, searching for confirmation, asking for understanding, before leaning in and pulling your broad, frosted hand towards himself, holding your confused gaze as he licks a patch of chocolate away from your skin.

As he curls his tongue in the gap between your fingers.

As he slowly drags it up and scoops the white vanilla filling into his waiting mouth.

As he takes your thumb and hungrily sucks it behind his teeth.

Despite the fuzziness that is making you light-headed, you find yourself thinking of how glad you are that John seems to be enjoying the frosting you’ve spent so much time preparing after all.

John thoroughly cleans your hand, leaving a cold trail of saliva in his wake, making your trousers impossibly somehow tighter than they already are, and faintly, somewhere far behind your conscious mind, it occurs to you that maybe you should stop this. You should reprehend John, make him stop, scold him for such inappropriate behavior, but you can’t.

You can’t.

You find the words simply won’t leave you.

You keep staring at John, frozen in shock, and John stops, the tip of his tongue barely even touching your skin now, and as though becoming aware of his actions, or your current state, or both, he turns bright red, flushes to the tip of his ears as he swallows the cream. He’s visibly flustered, fidgeting once again, and you still can’t move, muscles locked and painfully rigid.

It felt far too wonderful.

It was far too terrible.

John stands, pushes his chair back, mumbles something under his breath before trying to turn away, and you know you should allow him to retire, you know you should, you _must_ \--

Before you can stop yourself you’re holding onto his arm, his strong and lean arm, exactly like yours used to be in your youth, in your golden days, and you grip tightens, your sudden reaction rousing you from your chair as your feelings flood back to you and you are once more a _participant,_ not simply that strange, distant observer.

“No.” You whisper, and your voice barely sounds your own anymore, thick and heavy and low. Far too low. “Wait.”

You don’t know why you’re saying these things. You don’t know how you encountered the strength to speak, and why these are the only words you’ve managed to enunciate. You don’t know what you want from him - No. If you dare be honest with yourself, you know _exactly_ what it is that you desire. It’s a foolish idea to believe you can simply obtain it, just like that.

John stops, looks at you, a bit of frosting on his lip.

You fixate on it, if only so you don’t have to see his face anymore.

Your son’s face.

Your handsome, adult, distant son, no longer the boy who used to smile up at you and adore you, no longer the awkward teenager who never quite settled, and you realize how terribly you miss that young son of yours.

But, simultaneously, you note how much you still adore him, how now you feel things that you never once felt for that young, bubbly child.

You’ve moved forward, now standing in front of him, and John has once again grown very still, very stiff and tense; the two of you are now almost nose to nose.

The frosting shouldn’t go to waste, you think, before wrapping your left hand on the back of John’s head and pulling him towards you, capturing his lips with yours - just for the frosting, you tell yourself, running your tongue up and licking, only for the frosting, - and like a switch has been flipped within him John’s frame becomes relaxed, and he pulls you towards him by your biceps, no longer firm and strong, now soft, rounder, a world away from the definition you once had. John opens his mouth, moves his tongue against yours, and he tastes like sugar, like the vanilla filling that coated your fingers mixed with sweet milk chocolate, and unconsciously you tighten your grip on his hair, tilt his head just enough to allow your tongue to freely chase John’s between his damp, soft lips.

Just for the frosting.

Your son’s mouth tastes of it.

It wouldn’t do to let it go to waste.

After what feels like a thousand years and more you break apart, and you feel rather... _strange_ , for a lack of a better word. Oddly light, head spinning slightly, an aftertaste in your mouth that is rather unpleasant, most probably more a fruit of your imagination than reality. Your heart beats so fast inside your chest you fear you might fall ill.

And John.

John is looking at you, staring, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, the frosting which was once upon his lips gone, no trace of it left behind.

He is far more handsome when he is smiling, you think for lack of better thoughts.

“So... So you _do_...?” He stammers awkwardly, sounding hopeful, and you don’t know, you can’t answer, too afraid of what you’ll say if you attempt to reply.

John leans closer out of his own volition, and you want to step back, protest, retort - and you open your mouth to do just so, you tell yourself, foolish old man - but John kisses you before you can even breathe a sigh.

There is no denying this is a kiss, no matter how much you want to; how much you wish to deny how pleasant John’s lips are, how his hands are still firmly holding you close, unwilling to let go, but you can’t, you _can’t,_ even in the quiet privateness of your mind you can’t deny that this is a kiss and that you, this young man’s father, are kissing him back.

John presses you back against the table. You lean against it, considering sitting but worried the wooden furniture won’t be able to support your current overweight, and John, as if hearing your inner thoughts and taking them as a cue, runs his hands down your torso, over the sides of your body, gripping onto a dip on your hip where only a few months ago no fat could be seen. It reminds you that the curve is there, that you’re not fit and attractive anymore, and you become horribly self-conscious, finally managing to move, to hold John’s shoulders and gently push him away.

You don’t say anything, but you sense your cheeks warming up and your eyes blurring, the tears threatening to spill. Without a second thought John cups your face, thumbs the wetness off of your lids, and though you are lax to admit it, you subconsciously think you rather appreciate the tender gesture.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, all quiet and caring, so unlike how a son should speak to his loving father, and you shake your head.

“This is hardly proper.” You croak out, voice threatening to betray you. “You can’t really want me.”

“Why not?”

“I’m so... old. So worn. So... unfit. Plump.”

“You’re fine, dad.” He whispers to you, giving you what is probably supposed to be a reassuring smile, but in this moment of improper intimacy feels like something so much _more_. “Don’t you remember what I told you? You look great. _Perfect_.”

Egberts never did lie well, and what scares you the most is you know John _isn’t_ lying.

You wonder how John cannot see what is right in front of him, how he can mean those things when you are certain you are simply none of them at all, but you stop wondering when John kisses you again.

You are now certain, absolutely sure, that you are a terrible, terrible man, as both of your hands move down to John’s narrow hips to pull him towards you, where he barely fits against your soft belly. You are terrible, and you know somehow this must be your fault, you must have made John this way. You must have tripped _somewhere_ , and you wonder idly what you did wrong when raising him.

John’s hands brush your side again, ever so lightly, taking your own soft hips and tugging them closer to his own, lightly grinding against you.

Distractedly, you wonder what you did _right_.

The push against the table becomes harder, the kiss much more aggressive, wanting, hot and slick with desire. You steady yourself with a hand behind your back, shaky fingers pressing against the dish where the cake sits, and you faintly yet vividly remember how John’s tongue felt against your digits; tender, skilled and oh so _eager_.

You briefly consider playing with John’s other fantasies - _your_ other fantasies, sickly dwelled upon each night to a soundtrack of his breathless exertions - and suddenly you feel like this should be moved somewhere else, somewhere more private, somewhere not over the kitchen table when he has eaten beside you since he was a child. The low windows are barely covered by the evening dimness and thin, white curtains, neither enough to shield you from the _thought_ of neighbours who might, impossibly, somehow observe you, judge you, discover what a terrible father you are.

You feel quite awful for even considering moving on with this, but given the current circumstances the feeling is quickly brushed off, disregarded, hidden beneath some of your more primal instincts.

When John pauses to breathe, you take your time to look at him, mind still slowly ticking through everything that is happening and trying to make sense of the blur of emotion and confusion and desire threatening to sweep all of your sensibilities away. Barely of your own volition you turn around, both hands firmly grasping the cake tray, then slide out of the confined space John has trapped you in, having to suck your guts in to manage it and finding it to be much harder than it would have been mere months ago.

Your feet take you towards your bedroom without any conscious decision to head there, and not even once do you allow yourself to look back at John to see if he got the hint you’re trying to give him, if he’ll follow you or not. A dulled, worried part of you says he shouldn’t, hopes he _won’t_ , but it’s so low and so blurred out by that internal fog of nervousness and slight arousal that you pay it no mind, instead walking slowly towards the familiar door of your chambers.

The sound of hurried footsteps soon chases behind you, and you place the tray neatly onto your bedside table, slowly rising and turning around to find John beneath the arch of your bedroom door, holding the cake slicer you forgot in your hurry to leave the kitchen. He sounds breathless, fist clenched around the silver handle far too tightly, and you realize how fast this is all happening, how you cannot for the life of you stop this anymore.

But you know as soon as you think the words that they are also lies, among all the others you’ve insisted on telling yourself for the past few months.

This has been happening for far too long, a dance on wavering point around something that has grain by grain by agonizing grain slowly built up from a speck to a great mountain - to this very point, where neither of you can deny it anymore, tired of fooling yourselves and turning a blind eye towards each other, towards what is happening, towards _everything,_ in truth.

This isn’t fast at all, no. This is merely the last straw, the final result of months of endless charades and lies and guilt. Your walls, so carefully constructed of straw-thin excuses and the loose crumbling sand of your _properness_ , are collapsing beneath the weight of truth, and you find you cannot bring yourself to care much, too tired to keep propping them up with desperate hands after so long trying so futilely to patch the cracks that always appeared so fast in them there was more patching than wall, in the end.

You move to the door, John stepping away without being prompted, and slowly close it, lock it as an afterthought, feeling terribly stupid but somehow knowing you simply need the extra reassurance of privacy, even though there is no one here to interrupt you. Those imagined neighbours cease in their whispers and torment, and you rather feel you are locking them out of your thoughts as well as your room, some of the tenseness they brought to your muscles releasing, though they are still locked rigid with other concerns.

Behind you, John steps closer, rests both hands on your shoulders, and you vaguely recall the day in front of the mirror, and how much bigger you’ve gotten since, how much your tense relationship has escalated since then. Suddenly it dawns on you that this is it, the closing of the door is the last, final certainty that _yes_ , this is about to happen, whatever _this_ is. You are going to do this, mind too numb to fight the suggestions only furthered by your racing, illicit thoughts.

Your fingers move to your shirt, fumbling awkwardly when the buttons slip in your greasy and saliva-slicked fingers, and John squeezes your shoulder for a second, yet another silent reassurance; take your time, you have nowhere to be, no one to impress. John steps away after loosening his grip, hands smoothly sliding off your broad shoulders, and you turn around once the last button is loose, slipping the shirt off when your eyes lock. John gulps, looks up, stares into your bare soul.

He looks nervous.

This isn’t what he wanted, you think, panic fluttering in your chest, but it’s allayed as he starts to pull off his shirt as well, his chest heaving, movements frantic and hurried. A sigh comes out of you, albeit restrained - you honestly can’t tell if you’re relieved or not - and you slowly fold your shirt over your arm while John unbuckles and pulls free the belt holding up his pants.

Your boy pauses when he’s only in his briefs, and you find despite yourself you’re jealous. Not many years ago you’d feel like you’re looking in a mirror, all toned muscles and lean frame. You feel self conscious again of the belly that hides the bottom of your pants, the thighs that stretch the black slacks, but now it’s too late to stop, too late to turn back time and redo things.

You bend down, removing your belt and trousers, and fold them over your arm as well, piling them up atop the neatly folded shirt on your dresser. With that task done, you turn and make your way to the bed, sitting right next to the bedside table and looking up at John.

He’s so tall, now. So terribly tall and handsome.

“Dad.” Comes the shaky whisper, and finally you see _John_ , you see beyond your fear and your shame. You see his nervous expression, the slight tremor of his limbs, the clearly hard shaft pressing against his briefs, tip dampening the blue cotton.

You take it all in, slowly, savoring it almost as you do your cakes.

As an afterthought you decide to raise your hips, sliding out of your own underwear. John stares, lips parting, and you feel so strange, so... _disjointed._

You look at the cake, consider taking a slice, wonder if having it in your hand will be as nice and therapeutic as it usually is.

When you glance back at John, he quickly eyes the cake as well, turning back to you as if he understood the implication, as if he recalls how calm and relaxed the sponge always makes you after meals.

He steps up, dipping two fingers into the chocolate, a straight line from one end of the round cake to the other, revealing the cake beneath in the deep trench he leaves and ruining the decoration you so meticulously smoothed out with your spatula.

He kneels in front of you, never breaking eye contact, and then once he’s settled between your knees he lets his eyes drop to your chest, slowly - so _painfully_ slowly - sliding his fingers down all the way to your navel, then further still, descending without hesitation, tracing up your half erect cock and smearing the head and sides with cold frosting. It sends a shiver down your spine, but already the familiar coolness of it puts you at a strange form of ease, and you breathe out, almost as if relieved.

John sucks on his digits, ridding them of the remaining chocolate, then leans towards you. His hand pushes you slightly back as he mouths your stomach, sucks on your flesh exactly where his fingers started. The weight of your swollen belly forces you to lie all the way down onto the bed, and when you do is with some mortification that you note that you cannot see your own member behind the mass of fat before you. John, however, seems to have a completely opposite opinion on your appearance, licking the path of chocolate he left behind with eagerness, both hands kneading and squeezing what you distantly recall are called ‘love handles’, fondling your body as if it enamours him, as if he enjoys it and can’t bring himself to fathom how you cannot.

He trails down, uncaring of your body fat and hair, eyes closed and expression almost one of pure ecstasy. When he reaches your erection, though, it’s like you’re looking at someone else, some man who cannot possibly be the same boy who once smiled with such childish innocence at you, what with how he eyes you now as he licks his smeared lips in such a way your breath hitches in your throat. He hesitantly pecks the rigid muscle before tasting, before sucking, before taking it all inside his mouth, and as your breath floods back to you, you cannot keep yourself from screaming out his name.

John moans around you, sucks eagerly wherever his roaming tongue finds remains of chocolate, wantonly coating you with his saliva as if he cannot get enough of you. You’re fully erect now, and it’s been so _long_ , so many years since someone touched you like this. You buck your hips, feeling the back of John’s mouth in the split second before he rises and keeps bobbing his head up and down without so much as a blink or time for a breather, as if he’s afraid to pull back, afraid should he relent it will finally dawn on you what exactly it is that he is doing and you’ll try to stop him.

“John. _John!_ ” You cry out, more a warning or a plea than a moan of pleasure, and he senses your near desperation, pulling back and wiping the mess on his lips on the back of his hand before looking at you. You’ve been fisting the covers so hard your knuckles ache. “John... Son... I...”

It’s hard to tell what you want to say, and in the silence as he waits for you to speak, you notice just how much your neck hurts from the odd angle you contorted yourself into as you twisted down to watch him continue his ministrations. Probably sensing how tense you are and noting your suddenly pained expression, John helps you sit up, pulling you by your arm. You bend down further to hunch forward, hiding your face in both hands, supported on your knees by your elbows. You shake your head, breathe through your mouth, feel the sweat running down your back. You’ll have a heart attack at this rate.

“Dad. Here.”

You look up a few inches, and widen your eyes, seeing that John is kneeling up straight. When you take a deep breath and straighten your back you find you are both on a matching eye-level, and in his hands there is a gorgeous, generous slice of the cake. He’s holding it gingerly, careful not to let it crumble, and it is offered to you once you settle back in a somehow comfortable sitting position, your hard-on already painful to live with.

You lean forward, wrap your lips around the cake, and yes. Yes, this you can do. This is familiar, this is comforting, this is _home_. This you can relax to. You hum in appreciation, chewing on the sweet and closing your eyes, enjoying the sensations, the flavor, the mix of textures.

When you feel something warm and moist against your lips you startle, jumping with a gasp, and John is hovering awkwardly over you, his tongue quickly returning to the inside of his mouth.

“Some... frosting...” He whispers, and you both eye each other carefully as he moves to straddle your lap. He settles when he is sitting atop you, the cake in one hand, the other on your hip, caressing your flesh in slow, tender circular motions. As you begin to tense up, he moves the cake to you, and you eagerly oblige, biting into the soft sponge again, eyes half-shut and little, involuntary hums of appreciation escaping you.

John moans in return, and when you focus enough to open your eyes and look at him, he’s also got this foggy look to his gaze, unfocused, lustful. His left hand slides a bit to the right, closes around your cock, and instantly you close your eyes, gasping around your current mouthful.

His hand moves incredibly fast, glides easily with the aid of your thick foreskin and the slickness of his spit, and once you swallow you immediately reach forward to take another bite of the cake, mouth coming dangerously close to John’s fingers, and he’s biting his lip as you feel his hips rocking ever so slowly over your plump legs. You moan when he stops to thumb your slit, choke out a second sound when he starts to stroke you again, and it takes all you have to focus on chewing, just chewing, concentrate on the sweet you’re being served and not just the pleasure you’re receiving.

Another bite, and your teeth scrape against John’s thumb deliberately, making John moan in unison with yourself. He stops touching you and leans the cake away from your face, and you look down at where he’s fumbling with the front opening of his briefs, fishing out his own cock. You find it difficult to look away as he awkwardly tries to fix his hand around you both, shuffling forward, panting and gasping.

You put a hand over his, and John immediately looks up, and you swallow calmly, lean in, peck him, almost as a distraction. You pry his loose fingers away, wrap your own, bigger, warmer hand around both of your shafts, and start working on both of you, using your left hand to lightly touch the back of John’s right, redirecting the cake towards you. You take another bite of it, now only one bite away from finishing the cake, and the filling and frosting get on your chin, making John moan, both from the sight and the touches between you.

It’s hard to maneuver to a comfortable position because of your oversized belly, but John doesn’t seem to mind, licking your lips as you chew and moan. Your right arm is still furiously moving as best as you can, pumping the two of you with the closest you can currently get to deep concentration, and he breathes out, hot puffs of breath washing over your face. He offers his hand to you one last time, and you take it, mouthing the cake, licking away the crumbs, quickly swallowing the last of the sponge before roughly grasping John’s wrist and shoving his moist, dirty fingers into your mouth, sucking on them to hide your moans. If the motion stifles you, it has the opposite effect on him, doubling John’s cries of pleasure as he climaxes. His seed shoots up onto you as you reach your own finish just after, catching most of your own sperm inside your fist and foreskin.

Not a second later John’s sliding off your lap, pushing your legs open and kneeling between them, and you’re so shocked you can barely stop him from lapping at your member, holding you with his dirty hand and pulling the foreskin down to coat your entire member in your own cum, sucking and licking away any remnants of the sour and the sweet creams alike.

When he looks up at you it’s with a look you haven’t seen in a while, gleaming with mischief and happiness.

“Thank you.” He whispers, placing a kiss on the head of your still erect cock, and without any words left in you, you don’t respond, unsure of what exactly you would say even if you could.

You lie down on your bed, John curled up besides you, head resting on your chest, sleeping peacefully.

You eye the considerably smaller sponge on your bedside, and let tiredness take you.

You dream of calming rivers and blue skies, and the smell of freshly baked cakes.

\--

The next morning, you wake up to no John, no cake, and a dull ache in your joints.

You walk downstairs, tying a robe tightly around your frame, frowning when you notice how much less belt is left loose now, when you tie it. Inside the kitchen you see John, smiling at you from beside the coffee pot. Your gaze is almost immediately arrested, however, by a new, fresh cake on the table, glossy pink with large strawberries on top.

“Morning, Dad! Hungry?” He asks you, and goodness, you haven’t heard that cheery voice in such a long time, it’s like waking up to a soft summer breeze. You smile and nod, sitting down as he puts your mug in front of you, promptly pouring scalding hot coffee into it.

You take the milk carton and pour the cold liquid in as well, watching as the black beverage slowly swirls into a light brown, and then sip.

Perfectly delicious, exactly like you always make it.

Before you can set the mug down, John is already walking towards you and setting his own mug and a plate with two slices of toast beside you. He moves a chair closer to yours and sits, scoots closer until you’re almost shoulder to shoulder, and you raise a brow, but he just smiles sweetly, adding cream to his black coffee and taking a few long gulps.

“You baked this cake on your own?” You ask lowly, unable to contain your curiosity, and John nods enthusiastically.

“Yup!” He replies, biting into his toast. “I’ve watched you bake enough of your cakes to know how to make one myself, Dad. I know the frosting isn’t as pretty as the ones you usually make, though.”

“It looks gorgeous, John.” You tell him, and he smiles broadly in reply, setting his half toast down and patting his hands over one another to rid them of crumbs. He reaches for a knife besides the cake tray and sinks the tip exactly in its middle, slowly slicing a nice wedge that he ever so carefully slides back. You note the gorgeous vanilla sponge and the equally pink filling inside the cake, small pieces of fresh strawberry in the mix, and you wonder how early he must’ve woken up to work on it and still have time to make coffee and toast.

To your surprise, once it’s far enough from the cake, John takes it in his fingers, tongue peeking out in deep concentration, and you wonder briefly if he’ll actually do it, if he’ll actually eat the cake, but with slightly flushed cheeks he turns to you, gesturing for you to take it.

Instead you bite, making no motion to take the cake from his fingers, and chew, taking a sip of your coffee to swallow it down.

“It’s absolutely delicious, son. Thank you.” You whisper, smiling at him, and he beams when you take another bite, nibbles on his lip when you lick his fingers clean.

He feeds you yet another slice, and you gladly eat it, humming with happiness and satisfaction.

John cleans up, and you watch thoughtfully as he does, newspaper in hand.

“You know, maybe we could bake together, next time.” You say, and John stops scrubbing the plate in his hand to turn towards you instead. “And maybe we could enjoy it together afterwards, should you wish.”

You watch him as he takes the words in, smiling again, genuinely happy, and note that just the _thought_ of that - of cooking with John, of taking the cake from between his fingers, of watching the flush creep over him as he feeds you - feels soothing. Nowhere near the delight of cool frosting and sweet sponge, but something close.

You feel awfully light, suddenly. Free. Its as though all the tenseness and terribleness and awkwardness between you both has faded away, just like that, and all that's left is a contentment, a sensation of surrender, of acceptance.

You breathe deeply, filling your lungs with the lingering smell of fresh cake, and give John the smallest of smiles.

“Yeah,” He nods, licking his lips, “I’d like that.”

The smile on John's face is the broadest you’ve seen in _years_.

He dries his hand, the soaped dishes forgotten for now, walks over and sits again in the chair next to you, picking up the last slice of cake and offering it. You put the newspaper down on the table, making sure to hold his gaze as you take it, accept it, calm at last, certain as you suck John's messy fingers clean afterwards that if every cake you eat from now on is served from your son’s hand, then you’ll certainly be quite happy with that.


End file.
